


but everything must be dared

by Ghostcat



Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017), Call Me By Your Name - All Media Types, Call Me by Your Name - André Aciman
Genre: Alternate Universe - Always a Different Sex, Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Canon Bisexual Character, F/F, Fem!Elio Perlman, Fem!Oliver - Freeform, Femslash, Français | French, Genderbending, Genderswap, Teenage Girls are Scary as Fuck Y'all, every me loves every you, wlw
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-25
Updated: 2018-11-01
Packaged: 2019-07-17 13:49:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16096919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ghostcat/pseuds/Ghostcat
Summary: When Olivia says Later!—over her shoulder, at the piazzetta, the breakfast table, leaving the swim trough in a bright green two-piece, water dripping down her long legs and arms, smile as bright and breezy as a tooth advert—her cheek dimples on one side but her eyes remain cool. As if saying: come closer, but not too close; I am beautiful but unknowable.(The CMBYN genderswap fic no living soul asked for, save for the twenty odd people on Tumblr who told me they'd read when I finished it)





	1. and hears you nearby speaking sweetly

**Author's Note:**

  * For [barthelme](https://archiveofourown.org/users/barthelme/gifts).



> For bartie for creating Timmy 2.0, rage deleting him and traumatizing me for life, then bringing him back. This is my dead mouse gift to you.
> 
> But also the 20-odd readers back in July. Thank you for coming to my dinner party. Sorry it takes me forever to do anything.

   When Olivia says _Later!_ —over her shoulder, at the piazzetta, the breakfast table, leaving the swim trough in a bright green two-piece, water dripping down her long legs and arms, smile as bright and breezy as a tooth advert—her cheek dimples on one side but her eyes remain cool. As if saying: come closer, but not too close; I am beautiful but unknowable. That is the central fascination for me; the contradiction. At least it is today.

   My obsession with her is a malleable thing. Shaped too easily by a kind word or her listening, the way she laughs at my jokey asides when no one else seems to hear them, and of course, her absence. The days I only see her at breakfast; blue shirt tied at her waist like Jean Seberg in _Bonjour Tristesse_. High blonde ponytail streaming behind her as she speeds off on her borrowed bicycle.

_Later!_

   She’s always striding away from me, towards some social engagement or meeting because everybody is so charmed by the lovely American— _come la Grace Kelly, giusto?_   Whenever she is here, a few feet away stretched out on her towel, sunglasses-on, just the two of us, she hardly speaks. I don’t say anything either. Afraid that any of my overtures will spark one of her _Laters!_ and I’ll be on my own again.

   I want very much to be her confidante. Her best friend. I want her to fall asleep on my shoulder in the car so I can look at the fine blonde hairs in her arm, at the nape of her neck. Smell her faint perfume, warmed alive by the sun on her skin.

   Being alone has never bothered me before. I’m a solitary creature out of necessity and habit. I have friends in town, all around, people I’ve grown up with, but I prefer my own company. Marco has a photo of me from last summer where I’m lying sideways on an armchair reading _Justine_ , a bowl of cherries perfectly balanced on my stomach. It was someone’s birthday and I’d snuck away, anxious to know if Nessim really would kill our narrator after all. Marco says it’s the most ‘me’ photo in existence. I suppose he’s right. I look guilty and a little defiant, one finger marking my place on the page, probably staining it red.

   Now though, I feel restless when alone in the house. I wander around but can’t focus on any of my books or my transcriptions. I sleep on the couch. I sulk. I practice in a desultory manner. I wait. For her to return, the flap of her espadrilles on the wooden floor, clad in those tiny yellow shorts with the racing stripes on the side. I’d thought, after memorizing her application photo, squinty-eyed and smiling by the ocean, hair loose over one shoulder, and essay, a witty guide to the pre-Socratics views on Art—a savvy and (thrillingly, to my mind) shameless attempt to curry favor with Papa, that she and I would click immediately upon meeting. I didn’t have many female friends my age, I preferred the company of adults. Maman always said that I needed to be more open to others in general. I had thought this candidate could be my entry point, and that our common affinities would instantly ensure it. But so far, nothing. Just _Laters!_ and piercing stares. As if I’m an obstruction to her summer of scholarship and amusement.

   So much of her is on display, all of the time. Skin, skin, skin, tan and golden. Muscular too. Swim Team Captain, Pro, she tells my father with that enormous white smile. I’m part-fish. I mumble something about Ovid and she slides those hard blue eyes my way, and laughs. A single dry laugh, like a bark. She looks less glowing then; more corporeal. There’s a freckle on her shoulder that I long to bite.

   That thought came out of nowhere and I’m certain I blushed. The surprise of it was a surprise in itself. I had always been a slow thinker. It was easy to make decisions when you’ve had time to examine the impetus behind them to the smallest detail, but here, for the first time ever, I felt a heady, impatient rush. As if I didn’t have time to take the quiet path to friendship but needed to skip ahead to some other, as-yet-undetermined step. What did I want? I didn’t know. 

   She speaks so precisely, like she’s biting off the ends of her words. Must be the sharpness of her canine teeth, which gives her otherwise cool beauty an unexpected edge. When she says, sudden and low in the dusk of our garden: I like your dress, you don't usually wear them, it sounds angry. Like an accusation.

   Thank you, I reply, understanding suddenly, with an alarming clarity, that I'd worn it for her. And that I didn't actually want her to like the _dress_. I wanted her to like _me_  in the dress.

   Her lashes are long and lush and I want to feel them on my face, fluttering against my cheek. I want to know things about her that are impolite. That is what I want.

   Before I can fully sink into disquiet, Olivia smiles, tosses out those two syllables, and slides into her tennis shoes like slippers, squashing the backs of them with her heels as she moves purposefully towards the house. I stay in the garden; breathless, mouth open and dry. Hooked. 


	2. and laughing delightfully, which indeed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you roll your mouse over the text in French, you'll see the translation underneath.
> 
> Apologies for the lack of quotation marks, I've foolishly decided to go the Aciman route.

   One shirt, two shirts. Blue stripes, pink, maroon. Me, in a bikini top for a bra, and not able to decide between them. Marco stared at the growing pile, playing with the string friendship bracelets I’d made for him last summer; long skinny legs stretched out in front of him. I’d known him practically my entire life. He was tender and agreeable and to-a-fault honest. Handsome too, with warm brown eyes and a watchful, hesitant manner. The two of us had been creeping towards something more than friendship for the past year, but our progress was hampered by how comfortable things were. There was no one around whom I was less self-conscious.

   I was desperate to rid myself of my virginity, though. Not because I wanted to have sex, particularly. I just hated the concept. The hold it seemed to have on some people, like it had a value greater than myself. Marco would be the ideal partner, careful and patient. With him, I would be at ease. It wouldn’t be wrong to try things or want.

   Maroon or Striped?

   He covered his lap with a pillow and shrugged, still staring at the pile. I laughed.

   Tu es dur maintenant ?

   I sat at the foot of my bed and untied his red shoelace. He had way more hair on his legs now. Come to think of it, his voice was deeper, too.

   Ne sois pas gêné, I continued, shrugging. Je sais que ce n’est pas moi. Une brise légère pourrait probablement la faire lever. C’est naturel.

   He shook his head. Je ne suis pas gêné.

   Bien. Je peux voir ?

   Marco blushed, mumbled no. But I think he would have let me, if I’d kept asking.

   I had been trying, with others. Starting with a sloppy kiss at fourteen with Riccardo, a friend of my idiot cousin Matilda’s who stared at my ankles as if they were breasts. I’d done the experimentation math. He went to another school, lived in another country, wasn’t a particularly favored friend of my cousin’s, kept generally quiet. In short, he was someone I’d probably never see or hear from again. Perfect.

   Riccardo leaned towards me on my grandfather’s bed as I expected he would, sneaking past Mafalda and the current summer resident, in order to go to my room and listen to _The Brandenburg Concertos_ ; but we both knew what was really going to happen. As soon we sat down, he’d put his hand on my knee like a claw and slipped his tongue in my mouth. I’d thought, _O_ _h. So this is what it’s like._

   It seemed so artless. His tongue went one way, mine went the other. In time they met, shook hands, of a slimy sort, then away again.

   I moved my head the way I’d seen in films. In the tilted pose of exaggerated listening.

   There was another boy the following fall—a clarinet student at my conservatory, Antoine. He’d come to my apartment after school and eat saltines. Then we’d kiss, sloppily, on the sofa. One day, he pressed his erection on my leg and I soundly ignored it. I wasn’t sure I wanted to meet it. The erect penises I’d seen in magazines always looked infuriated. As if they wanted to shout _FUCK_ at you. I put a pillow on the couch and asked him to rub himself on that instead, then took a seat next to him to watch. He followed my instructions with a hazy sort of complacency, as if he would have said yes to getting in a bathtub with a plugged-in toaster if I’d asked. He never looked at me. Not even when he came, his mouth falling open with a small sigh; his silvery retainer glinting. After he left, I ate a banana, listened to Mahler, and masturbated, thinking about the blank look on his face and how I envied it.

   I did meet his penis, right after Hanukkah. It wasn’t like what I’d built it up in my head. It was much smaller, for one. The skin softer than I’d expected. Fat. We never had sex, though. I thought about it intensely over a period of several days and ultimately, rejected the idea. He took it well.

   Marco’s older brother, Enzio was briefly considered as a substitute. He was certainly good looking; tall and slender, muscular like a footballer and seemed to like me, growing flustered and pink-faced whenever they’d come for lunch at the villa. Once at the lake, on a night swim, he removed all of his clothing and stood, proud and naked, for everyone to admire. He had a beautiful body, like one of my father’s statues—strong yet curved. Marco rolled his eyes when he saw me gawking. That’s entirely for your benefit, he’d told me. I hadn’t believed him. I’d snickered into his arm, liking his smell much more than the vista.

   But then came Olivia, on that sunny July afternoon. Marco and I watched her climb out of the car, hand holding down the large, straw hat on her head as if it would blow off at any second. Her blue shirt open and flapping over a white tube top, towering over my parents like some kind of Amazonian warrior. Her legs in long, beige slacks, sleeves rolled up on golden-skinned forearms. Her voice carried up to us, a warm well-enunciated alto, American through and through in its inflections. What do you think? I asked Marco. Elle a l’air sûre d’elle. Marco’s lips pursed in a silent whistle in response.

   Il faut que je descende, I said and went down to introduce myself.

   She was asleep within fifteen minutes of our meeting, face down in my bed, shoes still on her feet. I thought about removing them, untying the laces, but she was not my father or mother. I didn’t know her in a way that would allow me such a careless intimacy. Her ankles were slender, chafed where her skin met the back of her shoe, red and peeling. She woke up briefly to tell me she’d be skipping dinner, her voice husky with sleep.

   The second night, I carefully shaved my legs from ankle to knee, dabbed perfume in the crease of my elbows, lined my eyes with electric blue eyeliner my mother called “alarming” and applied peach lip gloss. It didn’t seem like much but by the end of it, I was sweating as if I’d run from our house to Crema and back, smeary and wet. Tiny mascara-lines feathered like unfinished exclamation marks all around my eyes. Even the mirror fogged. I wiped its surface with my hand and it steamed up once more.

   She skipped dinner then, too.

   This is how she’ll leave us, watch, I said to the assembled dinner table a few days after that—maman, papa, Aunt Marcella, Matilda and my smaller cousins. With, I said, lifting my hand in imitation of royalty greeting the plebs, a breezy Later!

   My father told me I was wrong. She’s shy.

   Shy, I scoffed, attempting to fix my rapidly-frizzing hair, which I’d also spent an hour arranging into a winsome bob. The evening breeze blew strands across my face, and they stuck to my lips. I pulled them off my mouth, leaving sticky strands of gloss on my cheek.

   You look beautiful tonight, _piccina_ , my mother said thoughtfully, sipping her frizzante. No one was more beautiful than my mother. I smoothed down my dress. Olivia told me she liked it. It was the only one I had that didn’t make me look like a twelve year-old. I felt like one anyway. Too old to play games with the children, too young to convince our guest to stay. My little cousins giggled over my father’s attempts at magic tricks at the end of the table and I sighed, the sound laden with all the irritation I could muster.

   Later—the word echoes in my head in her voice—I played the piano, reluctantly, plonking Satie’s _Sonatine Bureaucratique_ as if I were smashing unused plates.

   She’d touched me. Earlier that day, outside. A group had come by for tennis. I sat in the sidelines and watched her play a doubles set with Enzio as her partner. They high-fived each other every time they scored. Her shorts were impossibly small, thighs muscular, and her bathing suit top plunged low. Everyone talked about her, even Marco. It made me sick to hear them, because I was no better. I wanted to gawp at her too, know if her sweat tasted like salt or sugar, but I paced myself. Allowed myself only sips, tearing out a blade of grass for every bit of skin enjoyed.

   Hey, she said, leaning in front of me, suddenly, catching me entirely by surprise. Her hand circled my ankle and for a moment, my knee dropped to the side. As if I were making room between my legs. The sun shone directly behind her, right in my eyes. She smelled like Bain de Soleil. Do you mind? she asked, her lips curling slightly at the corners, and took my bottle of water, drinking deep without waiting for an answer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to TPMBouquins for the French translation.
> 
> Special thank you to Cheshirecatstrut for the beta read.
> 
> All remaining errors are mine and mine alone.


	3. makes my heart flutter in my breast

   I think it might have started that second morning.

   Our summer guest slept for so long on arrival, I didn’t get the chance to observe her until breakfast. In short order I learned that she was: an early riser, a runner, an avid poker player, well-read. Her Italian was negligible but improving, and she couldn’t crack a soft-boiled egg to save her life.

   (She’d scarfed one down at breakfast in a way that was near-violent. I’d never seen a woman eat that way, particularly a beautiful one. I glanced over at my mother to watch her reaction; and while her perfectly-shaped eyebrows nearly disappeared into her hairline, her grin was admiring. Olivia refused my parents’ offer of more, saying she couldn’t, she knew herself. Once she’d started she wouldn’t be able to stop. I looked down at my toast. It had an anthill-sized mound of Nutella on it; I pushed the plate away.)

   Her mocking sense of humor wasn’t unkind, merely sharply observant regarding both herself and others. She spoke of her siblings back home, less so about her parents. She fearlessly corrected my father, earning a smile from my mother—for standing up to him and passing his little test. She rode a bike fast, long legs pumping furiously, leaving me struggling to catch up. She was six feet tall, two inches. A giantess. I had to tilt my chin to look up at her when she stood beside me. It thrilled.

   I’m not short by any means, I’m taller than most boys my age, but she dwarfed me. It made me giddy. I was keenly aware of her perfection. She was mathematically ideal. A goddess who had stepped out of one of my books, as if summoned by my longing. She seemed entirely unafraid, she walked into rooms and owned them. Realizing that whenever I tried speaking to her, I faltered, I took to lurking nearby. Close enough to be a part of her day, but not so close we had to talk. I was an unobtrusive shadow. I spoke only when I knew I could wow her. _Oh, I’ve read that poet. I understand that translation. I am familiar with that artist._ I was cultured and smart. She needed to know this. I’d never wanted to impress someone more. Be more like someone.

   I didn’t know myself. But I wanted to.

   That second day, we took our bikes into Crema, went to the bank and the tabaccheria. She sat in a rickety cafe chair in the town square and asked me about Pearl Buck; her blouse had come unbuttoned and I could see her bra, the top half of her breast. A slight crease of skin at her neck, wet with perspiration. She fastened the button a moment later with one hand, eyes hidden by her sunglasses. I straightened, trying to match her posture, the unapologetic stretch of her legs.

   Olivia didn’t always seem to like me. One night at dinner, I caught her giving me a cold look, as if I was being offensive. She was playing with her spoon, turning it sideways, then towards herself. I’d been trying to explain why _On The Road_ was a terrible novel. She seemed to grit her teeth. Afterwards, I apologized. Why, she asked, shaking her head slightly. Her hair was wrapped in a towel and her gold necklace shone on her chest. She closed the doors between our rooms and I stood there, as if the conversation wasn’t over.

   We were always together in the garden. She, working, papers spread all around her. Me, transcribing some Haydn. I’d wear my sunglasses, all the better to observe her. It was my reward...work, then stares. Sometimes she’d be writing notes with her Montblanc pen and I’d watch a drop or two of sweat roll slowly down her neck. Other times, she’d be sleeping, her body shiny from her tube of suntan lotion, the back of her bathing suit undone to avoid tan lines.

   What did you just say?

   She’d startled me, I must’ve been talking to myself. Luckily, not in her direction.

 _Sitio_.

 _Sitio_ , she repeated.

   It means, I thirst.

   She lowered her sunglasses. The straps to her bikini dangled, she’d untied them, her top stayed up without assistance. I licked my lips. I felt like a jackal, half-hoping it would slip down without her noticing. Then stay down without her noticing. I’d get an eyeful before helpfully drawing her attention to it. She’d thank me and I’d say, no problem. My pleasure. Casual. Cool.

   I was no better than the local boys. I was probably worse.

   It’s from Haydn’s _The Seven Last Words of Christ_.

   What made you choose it? Olivia sat up, legs crossed, stretching her arms behind her back.

   Because Haydn hated writing it. He was given a commission with exact specifications, each piece had to be precisely ten minutes long and correlate to each of Christ’s last words as per the New Testament, and he felt miserably constrained.

   And what do you hope to learn by transcribing it?

   I want to appreciate the beauty that bursts through despite the shackles. Also, I happen to like restrictions.

   Do you? That glare was back.

   Yes—and I rushed to speak, rushed because if I lost her, she would gather her sunglasses and all those papers and go, go, go—I like knowing there is something I have to work around. And maybe there’s a trick to it, I just have to be clever.

   You are that.

   What, I said, momentarily lost.

   Clever.

   She took off her sunglasses and squinted at me, smiling. I smiled back without being aware of it, really. I could see the sides of my face lift but had given my body no go- ahead. It was responding to her; her sunshine. I was helpless.

   Want to go into town?

   Who, me? With you?

   Olivia rolled her eyes and stood up, quickly gathering her things. Yes, you. With me. Who else? Her top dropped and my mouth opened, for there were her breasts, firm and buoyant, nipples, pink. There was a clear difference in skin tone; warm tan, pale white. Still too close to her praise to think clearly, be as mercenary as planned, I gestured but couldn’t speak. She looked down and pulled up her top with a shrug, her nudity no big deal, tying the straps lazily around her neck.

   See you inside.

   I ran upstairs to change, she was in the bathroom, the door slightly open though I didn’t dare peek. My hands grabbed the first things I could find: shorts, short-sleeved blouse with tiny lemons on it, socks with a single pom-pom on their backs, my white low top Converse. Hair, impossible. Make-up, no time. I sat on the floor and scooted over to a mirror stacked against the wall. Not bad. Not her. But not bad.

   She made me race her all the way to Crema. Her long hair trailed behind her and her laughter was bright in the wind.

   Maybe it was that. The white band of her teeth, caused by me, for me. The red cover of her Lucretius peeking from the back pocket of her white shorts, that blue and white marinière top, the Anaïs Anaïs perfume I thought I could smell downwind. I didn’t know why I was laughing, but I did, I laughed, and the sound of our mutual amusement blended together in the gathering dusk.

   Olivia rode into the square, jumping off her bike before it even stopped. The rest of the group were there already: Marco, Enzio, Mario and the rest. She greeted them as if she expected to see them and Marco waved sweetly. We walked over to the gelateria, Olivia up ahead and I lagging behind, Marco’s hand in mine. I smiled at his conversation but kept my ear on Olivia. I wasn’t quite ready to stop walking alongside her. Everybody should know that we were close, the closest. That we belonged together.

   I was jealous.

   Jealous, she said, kissing my eyelids, her thumbs at my temple, gently tipping my head back to place her lips at my neck.

   It was terrible.

   Terrible, she echoed again.

   I could hear you laughing but I didn’t know about what. It burned me up, not knowing. I have to be a part of your laughter. Because I need to eat it.

   She laughed and I kissed her, showing her what I meant. If this was a fairy tale, Olivia, I was the witch who would hoard the sound of your laughter. I would never let it out of its box.

   We were past keeping secrets.

   But that was August and we’re still in July. We are still wasting time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you to Cheshirecatstrut for the super fast beta read on this chapter.


	4. for when I look at you even for a short time

   It took some time but eventually, she gave me her undivided attention.

   We spent a long afternoon playing a game of exchange. I said I would if she taught me poker. She agreed. I performed several arrangements of the Aria from Bach’s _Capriccio on the Departure of a Beloved Brother_ and delighted in her delight—the way she pretended to find me irritating for stringing her along, but showed me it was pretense by not hiding her smile, a constant flash of white by the doorway. She threatened to leave, even clopped further down the hall in her espadrilles, but I lured her back by giving her the exact version she wanted; delicate and fine, with a little of myself thrown in. The part of me that said: _please, get to know me, really know me, let’s be closer._ When finished, I turned to see what she’d thought, she was staring out the window to the garden. The sunlight streaming through lit her hair from behind, giving her a kind of halo. She asked me to play it again, and I could tell by her voice she was moved. I liked that that she was moved by something I’d done. I liked it very much.

   I was no good at poker. Any wins came from her being unable to read my hand. I didn’t have an inkling as to what I held so I never looked frightened or elated by the cards; only confused.

   You are an astonishingly easy read sometimes, she said, almost accusing, tipping her head back to regard me. Yes and? I said, going to her side of the table to study what she’d been holding. I didn’t know whether it was a good hand, only that the cards shook slightly as she held them. It’s not good for poker, you need to be able to use your face to throw people off, she said.

   I don’t know, I seem to have convinced you.

   A part of me understood this was provocation. I was deliberately being provocative.

   She put the cards down on the table and shifted closer, her thigh pressed to mine. I had an immediate and hungry urge to put my hand on it, feel how smooth it really was.

   You won because you didn’t know what you had. At some point, and then Olivia stopped to lick her lip, before starting up again. At some point, you’re going to know things and you’ll lose the advantage.

   Then I’ll learn not to show it.

   Olivia placed her hand at my neck, rubbing the skin there with her thumb and I breathed in with a kind of contained panic as all the blood in my body seem to bloom out from my chest and flow straight down between my legs to pulse there, slow and strong. She touched the thin gold of my necklace, staring as she slid the chain between her thumb and index finger. Looked as if she’d placed her hand in the jaws of a tiger, and was now watching in awe as it did not bite.

   Don’t, she said. Don’t learn.

   She shifted her gaze and I’ve never been more still. You tell all sorts of stories with your face, she said. Your… your eyes are green. A quiet, hushed hesitancy crept into her voice. They’re not, I tell her. Well, she countered, they’re more green than anything else.

   In the distance, past the gates, I could hear the voices of my friends approaching. We were supposed to go out dancing, but we kept smiling at one another as if we wouldn’t be going anywhere at all. Like the best thing we could do at that moment would be to grab hold of one another’s hands and run away, go hide, stay here. Her smile was wide and stunning, I was well and truly stunned.

   She got up before I could register that while I knew I’d been flirting, the only way I know how, so had she. Been flirting back, that is. With me.

   Later, at the nightclub, I watched Enzio slow-dance with her, his hands on her ass, and tried to distract my eyes with the burning ash of my cigarette. Behind me my friends catcalled and wolf-whistled, urging them to kiss until Enzio and Olivia did. I inhaled, exhaled. The smoke dissipated around me messily.

   It should have been me.

   Not me kissing Enzio, me kissing Olivia. It should have been me.

_Fuck._

   But what would I do with her lips once I had them? What would I do with her body if it was under my hands?

   Like most girls, I’d sat on a bed, legs spread, mirror in between them trying to figure out what was what. What would I do with another woman’s vagina in my face? Would I dare lean in and lick it? Stick a finger inside? What else then?

   Only my mind would go straight from the realization of lust to sex. As if that’s how life worked, you realized you wanted someone and then immediately fucked.

   I could touch her breasts, lick them, put her nipple in my mouth and watch her face to see if she liked it. Maybe try a soft bite. That sounded good. Better. I didn’t think I could do more, go further. Would she be fine with only that? I’m sorry, I don’t think I can go below the waist, I’m too afraid, can we just stay up here? Navel and up?

 _I_ wouldn’t be fine with it. I’d want her to touch me all over.

   He’s really going for it, huh? Marco whispered in my ear. I shrugged. Enzio’s jeans were tight and the top four buttons of his shirt were open. He was so sure of his body. Every dip and sway seemed to say, I can give you what you want. I could too, Olivia, I think, with a confidence that’s not quite real yet. But I could make it so. I just had to be there, dancing in his place. She just had to be there with me.

   Olivia danced with her eyes closed, her blue shirt untying, the tan skin of her belly slick with sweat. She kissed Enzio like she danced, beautiful and contained and a little bit remote. Like there were more layers of her to uncover.

   What if none of this—my violent yearning for her, my wish to be closer—was about sex at all, but worship? Maybe I didn’t want her, not really. Maybe I just wanted a little of her magic to fall on me. Be her, more her than she was, more magnetic, smarter, confident. Maybe if I kissed her, she would pass that magic of hers to me like a fairy tale in reverse and I’d wake up from the spell.

   The music pushed past the fog and with it came a surge of self-awareness that was thrilling and vast in equal, terrifying measure. I would never hear this song the same way again. I would never see the world the same way. I was changed.

   Perhaps the goal—being next to her always—could only be attained by kissing her; even though I wasn’t sure I could live with myself if kissing turned out not to be what I wanted.

   Would I maintain the ruse to keep her close anyway?

   Would she forgive me feigning readiness?

   Would she forgive me for not knowing myself as she did? For never seeming to know anything at all?

   The song changed and she broke away from Enzio. Like I had willed it, he didn’t follow and it was just her, jumping. Eyes closed as she swayed, her arms in the air. Her long neck, the sweat at her hairline, the smudge of her eyeliner. She looked messy and alive. Her cheeks were two bright-pink blush spots. She was both a terrible dancer, all arms and legs and enthusiasm, and a wonderful one. Because I couldn’t stop staring at her as if there were nothing more beautiful.

   I had to get closer. Dance around her, my best moves; nearby enough to touch but maybe not touch, maybe never once look her way. Feel her heat, the sky-blue blur of her out of the corner of my eye. Decide, decide. Be bold.

   I wasn’t bold at all. I almost had sex with Marco, though.

   We walked to the water together from the club. He was shy, covering up the front of his boxers as if he was naked. I wanted to see all of him but didn’t push it. We kissed once, tenderly, and I enjoyed the kiss. It felt warm, kind… much like Marco himself.

   Are you here because of Enzio? Because he danced with her? Marco asked in English, and the language made him sound a bit wobbly. Vulnerable, almost.

   Her who?

   Even in the dark, I could see his blush. He didn’t elaborate.

   If I’d wanted to, I could have pushed things along. I just had to say the word and it would have happened.

   I told Maman as much at breakfast, flinging my newspaper over Olivia’s arm as if she was part of the tablecloth.

   Maman raised an eyebrow, so why didn’t you?

   I didn’t know. Perhaps I’ll try again later.

   At my elbow, Olivia straightened. Papa bounded in, try what, later?

   His question was buried under Enzio’s arrival, I could smell his cologne in the breeze. He must’ve bathed in it. Olivia walked him around the wall, out of sight from my parents but still visible to me. As my mother and father discussed the findings at Lake Garda, I watched Olivia from the corner of my eye as she whispered in Enzio’s ear and their knees touched. She could never wear heels with him, she stood inches taller. They murmured and laughed. My head hurt. I ate an apricot. It was sour. I spat out the seed into a small plate and it rattled around like a coin dropped on its side. Tsk tsk, my mother admonished, shaking her head.

   Later, as we waited by the car for my father to come down, I asked Olivia if it was big. Excuse me, she said, her eyes hidden by enormous sunglasses. His penis. Is it big? I said, aiming for casual. Marco is huge and they are brothers. Enzio took all his clothes off at the lake once, I smiled. He looked good but I only saw him from behind. Nice ass. So?

   She said absolutely nothing. I could see myself reflected in her sunglasses, leaning casually against the car, hand at my neck. Girls did this. Women. Told each other things. Talked about boys and sex. I shifted, scratching a mosquito bite on the back of my calf with my Keds.

   “I’m not interested in playing games with you. So quit it.”

   Olivia got in the car and slammed the door. It felt like a slap.

   I watched her walk through the rays of light streaking between the columns at Sirmione; later in the day, we swam in the lake with Papa. My rudeness seemingly forgiven, she splashed me and shouted my name and I returned the shout with hers. They almost sounded the same. My father waded further into the water, arms crossed, staring out at the pink twilight like a sailor contemplating a longed-for voyage.

   Are we friends again? I asked. _Tregua?_

   She looked at me oddly and extended her hand, only to pull me in and push me down into the water as I sputtered. I opened my eyes while I was under and pressed a finger to her thigh. She let me go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to CCS for her beta read. I am dumbz.
> 
> I've had to up the chapter count slightly.


	5. it is no longer possible for me to speak

   The days were languid and hot. I practiced Debussy’s _Miroirs_ dutifully on our detuned piano, remembering my posture mid-measure and straightening.

   Flies were everywhere in the house. Mafalda kept trying to shoo them outdoors, yelling at them in Lombard.

   I didn’t know when Olivia would be back. I knew when my parents would.

   I had an idea.

   After some nimble evasion of Mafalda, I entered my room, now Olivia’s. My art was still up on the wall: Patti Smith, Peter Gabriel, an Alfred Duhrer postcard, a Xanadu poster but it wasn’t the same. She’d slid the desk over and everything on it—papers, books, pencils, matchbox leaning against an empty ashtray, the lovely Mont Blanc pen—was hers. She’d set up a lamp on a chair next to the bed, like a makeshift bedside table, a bookmarked volume resting on it. What was she reading late at night? I turned the book towards me. Woolf. _Mrs. Dalloway_.

   Hanging from the bedpost was her red bikini. I grabbed the top, and looked over my shoulder as if looking could make the listening clearer.

   The room seemed to shimmer, but really I was shaking.

   I felt feverish and ill, as if this behavior was beyond my control. But I was completely in control—falling back on the bed like a slow-moving swimmer; removing my shorts, then my bathing suit bottoms. One object; two. I was half naked on my bed, now her bed. The sun had warmed her scent on the sheets, that light perfume, shampoo and soap. I rolled over, rubbing my face in her pillows, breathing in deep; drunk with imagined smells.

   My top came off too. If she walked in, I would have no excuse.

   I was going to borrow something to wear, but decided to take a nap instead.

   I was about to take a shower and was looking for a towel.

   It’s too hot for clothes.

   I forgot this wasn’t my room.

   Or I could faint, just up and fall down; a nude, trembling body on the floor. There for her to revive.

   A part of me wanted her to walk in. I wanted her to stop and stare; or better, get closer and help. Put those lovely fingers over mine.

   First her red bikini bottoms, then her top, tying it around my neck and back, the tie dangling there, giving me goosebumps. My breasts didn’t look like hers. Would she mind that they were small? Perhaps.

   I took off the top and dressed the pillow with it, tying the ends into perfect bows. I let my head fall down and sniffed the material, resting my cheek on a cup. Perfume and suntan lotion, the edges tasted tangy. My fingers wiggled down into her bathing suit bottoms, now mine, and rubbed as my hips rose up from the mattress, stuttering against their push. I was already slick.

   Wiggling the bottoms off hastily, I brought them up to my nose. I couldn’t tell whose scent it was in the gusset; hers, mine. Warm, like bread. I opened my mouth wide and pulled them over my head, breathing with my mouth, to bring the material towards me and away with each gulping breath. Like someone asphyxiating. I licked the material, not caring that I was leaving proof behind. Evidence of my desire. The idea turned me on even more. I was sick with want.

   God, I was wet.

   I pulled the bottoms off my head but kept them in my mouth.

   The ragged string-ends from my bracelets tickled my skin as I sought out my clitoris again and pressed, first with two fingers and then with my thumb as the others slid further down to curl up inside me. Her bikini bottoms were between my teeth and I rose up carefully to straddle the pillow, pushing my hips forward and into my hand. I could hear my breath, each exhalation, amplified to a buzz. I noticed little else, save the smell of her and my fingers. Her lips, sharp teeth. Golden-blonde. Hair on her arm. Her bony ankles, her. Chest. Her breasts, stomach. My name. On her lips. My lips. Hers. And hip and _oh_. _Fuck._

   I came. Kept rubbing furiously through the orgasm until I came again less than a minute later. My thighs unclenched from the pillow and I fell over, breathing hard and blinking, thinking I could probably come again. In another minute. Keep going and going, beating my previous masturbation record.

   Just from her face. The particulars of her body. The way she said my name like a question, even when there wasn’t one.

   There was a gray stain on the ceiling from an old leak that I’d always fall asleep studying. I brought my hand to my face and spread my fingers, the sticky, clear, egg-white fluid hung there as slack as a jump rope. I wiped it on my thigh.

   Downstairs, the radio started playing. I sat up too fast, dizzily grabbing my clothes, and got dressed quickly on rubbery legs. Smoothed out her bedsheets and untied the bikini top from the pillow, hanging both pieces where they were before. I washed my hands and heard Papa and Olivia outside, past the window; so while I had time, I leapt from my room to hers to swap our pillowcases. I scrubbed the pillowcase I’d sat on in the sink with hand soap, just in case. Mafalda wouldn’t come looking for laundry until tomorrow. I’d hang it over a chair until then. Done, I looked around breathlessly, then exited into the hall, following the voices to the balcony. Olivia bounded into view from below, her blue shirt untied and flapping behind her, walking further and further away through the green. Towards her usual spot on the grass and away from me.

   I wandered into the kitchen eventually looking for a snack, and found Papa sitting there eating a wafer like he’d just broken into a safe. Wordlessly, he handed me one. I took a bite. Cocoa. I leaned over to wipe some crumbs off of his face. When he stood to leave, he put a hand on my shoulder.

   Elli Belli. I’m afraid you’ve inherited my absentmindedness.

   I froze, mid-crunch. He smiled at me benignly and nodded towards my feet.

   You forgot a sock.

   I look down to my jelly-sandal clad feet. One in a frilly-fringed white sock. The other, bare.

   Olivia was back in her room by the time I managed to get upstairs. A couple of days later, the sock was on my bed, laundered and folded with its partner.

   It stormed one afternoon and she didn’t come home for lunch, then missed out on dinner also. She’d mentioned going biking with friends (I wasn’t invited); I imagined the group getting lost, an accident, a tragedy from which she never returned. I watched myself in the mirror, thinking about her death, and I cried. I wouldn’t even have to feign misery, I decided―I’d grieve openly and everyone would know how much I cared for her. Death would render her harmless. My feelings for her—harmless. See that harmless girl with her harmless feelings? The tip of my nose was red, my eyelids too. I waited for the sorrow to pass and found it wouldn’t. The hurt sat lodged in my throat, stubborn and sure.

   The electricity went out and maman read to me. I’ve gotten too tall for papa’s lap and my legs are too long for the couch, but I managed to find a spot wedged between them, lulled by a story about 16th century romantic love. I didn’t eat much, drank two glasses of wine at dinner, and then snuck another in the kitchen. Upstairs, I lay on my bed like a starfish, telling myself that I would speak and speak and speak everything that was inside of me until all my teeth fell out.

   The water ran in the bathroom and I sat up, moving so quickly to the doorway I almost tripped.

   Her hair was damp and so was her dress, she looked up and said my name. I said hers. I asked her a question to which she didn’t know the answer. Her eyes looked more gray than blue and she tilted her head back slightly, like she couldn’t hear me. I came closer to her. She watched my lips as if she was trying to read them.

   Elia.

   I blinked and felt the blink, like a tremor throughout my entire body.

   Go to bed, she said, putting her hand on my arm, tight enough to leave an imprint. I closed my eyes, yes, okay. Yes.

   I didn’t speak to her for two days after. It might have been shame or confusion but I wasn’t subtle about it. It felt to me that I was always more available to her, that my constant availability made me less valuable. She could talk to me at any moment, have me at any moment, and was equally free to withhold her presence. I wanted to give her a taste of my displeasure. I wanted her to miss me. Enter rooms and feel as if they were wrong somehow because I wasn’t there.

   Somehow, she’d come into the living room while I was practicing. I heard the turn of her page and stopped playing, exiting without explanation as I didn’t feel I owed her any. I did the same later at lunch. She arrived late and sat next to me, I feigned a cramp and excused myself, grabbing my dog-eared copy of _Parole_. Marco wasn’t home so I wound up cycling into town alone, frittering away a couple of hours in our local bookstore. It was dusk by the time I returned. My mother sat outside smoking, her cigarette ember burning against the blue.

   Piccina.

   I sat next to her and swatted a mosquito on my arm.

   Be nicer to our Muvi Star. She is our guest.

   For a single mad moment, I wanted to tell her everything. Whenever my mother smiled at me, in the same warm way she did when coaxing me to behave, the words always seemed to be there, ready to share. I managed a single okay and went inside.

   Olivia approached me first. Do you want to go swimming?

   Do I want to go swimming?

   Yes, she smiled.

   With you? Now?

   Yes, let’s go.

   I hurried into my suit but when I got downstairs, Enzio and Marco were there. Olivia shrugged at me over Enzio’s shoulder. We moved into the living room and I took my place at the piano, first playing an arrangement of Delibe’s ‘Flower Duet’ from _Lakmé_ , which slowly transformed into the theme from _Flashdance_. I sung along softly for Marco’s benefit.

   Olivia burst out laughing when I sang the chorus. I hadn’t even known she was listening. Those aren’t the words.

   Those aren’t the words?

   She shook her head, her cheeks pink like ripe fruit. No. Her laughter was nearly breathless, the skin of her chest red also as she managed, The lyric isn’t ‘take your pants off and make it happen’, it’s ‘take your _passion_ and make it happen.’

   Really? I shrugged. That’s a pity. My version makes more sense. Textually.

   Right. Textually, she repeated.

   The girl does take her pants off and make it happen, no?

   Her laughter was so giddy, it almost sounded like hiccups. It occurred to me that she had never smiled that way before, like something had been pulled unwittingly from her into the light. I wanted to keep hearing and seeing it.

   Marco asked if I was allowed to go out that night. His question felt like an interruption.

   Of course she is, Enzio replied. Little Miss Pink Dress. Her parents let her do whatever she wants.

   Is that true? Olivia asked and I answered with a shrug, going back to playing _What a Feelin’ _.__ Enzio’s voice was harsh, raspy; the sensitive suitor act dropped. Didn’t you know? he asked rhetorically. Her parents have no rules. And she never rebels, because there’s nothing to rebel against.

   He stopped, perhaps sensing the change in mood, and returned to the business of peeling the skin on Olivia’s shoulder. I continued playing, soft, then louder, the chorus to Adam Ant’s _ __Goody Two Shoes_ __ in the style of Mozart. I distinctly heard an unladylike snort.

   Some of us have other ways of rebelling, she said.

   I stared down at the keys.

   Go on, tell me. Enzio directed the question at me. I could feel the shove of it.

   She reads Antonia Pozzi.

   E chi e?

   A poet, I answered.

   A poet. Her voice was an echo of mine.

   There was no complicity in her glance, you’d never know she was defending me, but she must have been. What else could her revelation be, if not help?

   And her dress isn’t pink, she smiled. It’s red and white; striped. Not pink.

   It is. It’s red and white.

   Like a candy striper, Olivia clarified.

   Like a candy striper, I repeated, not having any idea what a candy striper was. Perhaps another word for candy cane?

   It meant so much that she’d noticed.

   We went to the lake and Marco apologized. I told him there was nothing to be sorry about as Olivia swam to the other side, a dot in the distance.

   I watched her in the trough a few days later, going back and forth doing her laps. She wore green one-piece that day; I liked her in green. I liked her body in it.

   She popped her head out like a seal on the shore, hair wet and slicked back. I didn’t even pretend to be reading; leaned forward, elbows on knees and grabbed a patch of grass, pulling it and wiping my hand on my leg. What is a candy striper? I asked my hands, then her.

   Olivia didn’t laugh, but her cheek dimpled. She shook her head. It’s a volunteer nurse. I was one in high school. You wear red-and-white striped uniforms.

   Ah.

   She pushed herself up but not out. The water traveled slowly down her neck into her cleavage.

   I bet you were good.

   At what? Being a volunteer?

   At looking like a candy cane.

   I went back to my book. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw her laughing, silently. She pushed off the stone side, not swimming, just floating on her back, staring up into the sky.

   Before Olivia, only one of our previous summer residents ever spent time with me in the gardens. Soft-voiced, and bespectacled, May had enormous brown eyes that blinked behind tortoiseshell spectacles and a halting, inquisitive manner. We’d sit next to one another at dinner and she would listen to me so carefully; it took me some time to get over the fear she was pulling some kind of prank. I was fifteen and not used to being listened to, not in a serious way. May was tiny, shorter than me; before she left, presented me with an antique postcard she said reminded her of my reading spot, which I must have told her about and forgotten. Her hand shook as she held it out to me and when I kissed her cheek in thanks, her face went crimson under my lips.

   The one after never left the room. She smelled like armpit sweat and cigarettes. Maman was convinced she was an anti-Semite. I heard her describe me as a trumped-up Lolita on the telephone as she spoke to her friends back home. I made sure to bring the book up at dinner so that Papa could hold forth on unreliable narrators, and I could glare at her over my gelato. I had scrubbed the crotch of my underwear with her toothbrush and when I saw her brushing her teeth that night, I grinned with a dangerous, radiant happiness. Because. Fuck. Her.

   Did you ever do that to me?

   I look up from my place on Olivia’s stomach. It’s so hot, the windows are wide open and there’s barely a breeze.

   No, of course not. My eyes slide over to her red swimsuit, discarded and dangling on her chair.

   Something else, then. She pushes back the damp hair at my temples.

   Yes, something else. I move my face to lap at a drop of sweat at the dip of her ribcage.

   Her smile is indulgent and unafraid.

   July became August and I spoke and did not die. I told her how I felt in my own indirect way, which she seemed to understand as clearly as a hand at her heart. Her initial reply was that we shouldn’t speak of such things. As if we were characters in some Southern play, fanning ourselves on a porch in mortification. I nodded as if I agreed, but really I would have nodded to anything, then.

   My exhilaration at confessing was too much of a high. I felt elated but also calm. I expected her to run. Take off to any number of places, appointments, meetings, assignations—all those people she whiled away the time with when she wasn’t with us, but she didn’t. She said we would pretend to have never spoken about this, but followed me on her bicycle anyway. Past the cars in the town square to the places where the cement roads turned to stone and gravel. Where there were only trees and grass, sky and us, only us.

   We arrived at my spot; the stream I liked to sit by and read. Novel after novel, looking up now and then to admire the Alps in the distance. My parents let me go everywhere on my bicycle and so I did; and this place, like most things I treasured, was an accidental find. It was out of the way enough to remain my secret; and here, between water and leaves and bits of shifting light, I once again staked my claim.

   Olivia waded further out, bending forward to trail her fingers on the water, picking up leaves and holding them to the light. Her yellow dress was a pale lemon color with tiny white flowers, and sheer enough that she had to wear a cotton slip underneath. The dress had buttons all the way down the front, black and flower-shaped with a small rhinestone in the middle of each. I’d asked her where she got it and she told me a used clothing shop in Sicily; that’s where she had spent the first part of her trip, before coming to us. She held up the hem so as not to get it wet and I stared at her thighs. Did people long for thighs? To place their face there? Rub a cheekbone along that flesh? They were tan, strong and almost-bare.

   Seeing her, in my place, brought there by me, was like telling someone your dream by leading them inside of it; impossible and wonderful. The wind blew her hair over her shoulder as she took in the details, near the smooth flat rock on which I liked to sit. Her toes curled on the stones. My stones. The fat, white clouds passed overhead, above the mountains in the distance, the cold, cold water; everything remained as it had always been, but now she was here, also. Her face, her thoughts, hands―with me. It felt correct, as a result, to get closer than I ever had, stepping nearer, the sound of the water parting for me like an announcement. She leaned back, startled enough to drop her hold on her skirt. Startled enough to still, to give me a curious, uncertain smile. I wanted to look down at the yellow fabric, wet and floating around her, but I did not break from her eyes. Were they gray, not blue? They held so much light in them. I wanted that light closer and her lips, I wanted them closer too, on mine. In my staring, I was saying kiss me. I am ready to be kissed.

   I wasn’t scared, I didn’t back away. It was a dare, I was daring her. Because I had spoken, and I no longer feared being found out. Only the person that hides needs to fear. Olivia blinked and moved around me, stepping gingerly out of the water, wringing out her skirt. The drops of water glittered in the light.

   I followed her and sat down in the grass near where she stood, leaning back to admire the vision. She looked everywhere but at me, shielding her eyes. Eventually eased down to lie alongside me, her lashes blinking closed.

   Do you like it?

   Do I like it? She raised her eyebrow.

   Yes.

   She had a hole in the side of her dress, torn perfectly at the seam, the white of her slip visible in the gap.

   Do you mean this place, or us?

   Yes.

   I opened my eye and she was much closer than before, looking down on me. She brought her hand to my face and touched my lips with her finger and I wished they were wetter. I flicked my tongue out and touched her finger, and I felt the blood moving inside my body like a hot, churning river. I was made of pulse and want, the thought of just how much burning inside my head, and I pushed up and met her halfway, lips to lips. My mouth parted and then her tongue; it was nothing but joyous welcome.

   We were two women, kissing. The thought hit me several times, how funny. Two women. Two pairs of lips. Pressed to one another’s. Like a flash of a song or lines from a poem; brief and vivid. Come oh bride, my bride and I pushed against her, so hungry that when she held me back, her hand at my shoulder, I groaned and flopped forward on my stomach, my face falling into the grass. Next to me, she laughed, a little breathless.

   Okay, then?

   I was not okay. I sat up and moved towards her again, reaching for her face with both hands. She let me. Her long hair brushing against my hands. She let me again. Once, twice, then pushed me away.

   I don't know how I stopped. It felt as if we were inventing kissing. Nothing had ever felt that way. So dear, so familiar, so wanted.

   After lunch at home, when I suddenly got a nosebleed and my period simultaneously, like some kind of repulsive girl-shaped blood geyser, Olivia took my foot in her hand. I put my finger in the hole at the side seam of her dress, right against her slip. I ran my nail along the cotton and her eyes slid to me as if she’d just discovered that I was more than a body in her hands, a leg resting on her thigh. I had wanted to do that before and I felt I needed to before she disappeared again.

   I hoped she would kiss me again, but she didn’t. She took off instead, after promising she wouldn’t, narrowly avoiding Marco and Enzio. I rested on Marco’s lap on our couch, while he rubbed my abdomen and Enzio pretended to be disgusted. His chin pointed at me like the start of an accusation but followed up with nothing, tired before he’d even begun.

   Where’s Olivia? I asked him as he lit a cigarette.

   How should I know? He looked at me as if I knew something he didn’t.

   Neither of us had her, but he was supposed to. Too bad for him.

   I took the cigarette from his hand, enjoyed a drag and exhaled in his face _ _._ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, as always, to the wonderful Cheshirecatstrut for cleaning my horrible sentences up.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you to Mourning_sad to for the super fast chapter beta reading. Any remaining errors are mine and mine alone.


End file.
